Almost, Again

A tenderness we never let happen

We both feel it.

That is the hardest part.

If it were only me,

I could call it fantasy

and let it starve.

But you look at me

like you are holding the same flame

and trying not to burn.

There is a version of us

that does not hesitate.

That reaches.

That does not count the cost.

I think about it

more than I admit.

The ease of it.

The way wanting would not need to hide.

You stand to close sometimes.

Not touching.

Never touching.

As if restraint itself is sacred.

I want you.
Not vaguely.

Not poetically.

I want you in the plainest way.

And you know it.

That is what makes it ache.

The knowing.

The quiet agreement

to do nothing.

We could step forward.

We do not.

We let the space remain

like an umbrella neither of us opens,

though the rain is steady 

and we are already wet.

Some nights I imagine

what surrender would feel like.

Not destruction.

Just relief.

But morning always comes

with its clear light,

and the wanting folds itself back into silence.

We both feel it,

and we both leave it there.